He nods as if that makes sense to him. “You know where your room is. If you need anythin’, ask.”
My heart does a stupid little stumble. “I really get my own room?”
“Yes.”
“Not even going to pretend you want to share?”
He turns his head to look at me fully. His eyes are darker in the firelight—a deep, steady green like the forest outside.
“You want honesty?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“I want you somewhere I can see you,” he says quietly. “So I know you’re safe.”
My pulse kicks up. I force a smirk because if I don’t, I might do something stupid, like lean into him and test what those broad shoulders feel like under my hands.
“So you want to keep me in your line of sight,” I tease. “Creepy.”
“Protective,” he corrects.
“Possessive,” I counter.
His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “Maybe.”
It shouldn’t be hot.
It is.
I clear my throat and step back. “I’m going to shower.”
“Good.” His voice is a low rumble. “Get warm.”
I retreat down the hall, my heart thudding too hard.
In my room, I shut the door and lean against it, eyes closed.
What am I doing? I’m supposed to be proving something. Finding myself. Feeling chosen.
Instead, I’m standing in a stranger’s cabin, feeling like the quiet might swallow me whole if I stop moving.
Except... the quiet doesn’t feel like drowning tonight. It feels like floating.
I shower quickly, letting the water pound heat into my skin until the tension eases out of my shoulders. I brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the mirror—hair damp, cheeks pink, eyes too bright.
The woman staring back looks like she’s on the edge of something.
I pull on leggings and a flannel shirt I find in one of the drawers. It must be his flannel, from the size of it. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves too long, and the collar loose around my throat. It smells of soap, musk, and a hint of smoke. Like him.
I freeze for a second; the shirt bunched in my fists. This is too intimate. My senses are overstimulated.
It’s just fabric,my mind says.
No, it’s not just fabric,my body argues.
I force myself out of the room. If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to spiral, and spiraling in a stranger’s cabin while wearing his shirt is a level of pathetic that I’m not ready to embrace.
Tex is in the living room, sitting in the chair by the fire, holding a book. He looks up when I enter, and his gaze lands on the flannel. Something shifts in his face—a flicker, a tightening in his jaw.
